


Argia

by Shadowdianne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, family gathering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21900715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdianne/pseuds/Shadowdianne
Summary: “Thank you.”She didn’t elaborate: she didn’t need to. It was going to be fine.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 1
Kudos: 67





	Argia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DisasterLesbean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterLesbean/gifts).



_Argi, -a: Light in Basque_

The clock ticked as the night outside the apartment kept on growing, throwing bony fingers against the windows from where Hermione kept on glancing at the, mostly, empty road. The muggle-based Christmas lights casted tinted shadows against the nighttime breeze and the laughter of those delighted for the first and timid snow that had fallen sometime that previous afternoon could be heard seeping from under the buzzing lampposts.

20 minutes since nightfall, the warmth coming from the hanukkiah felt more like a curse brought by a memory rather than what it stood out for and the brunette witch bit down on her bottom lip as she kept looking at the street outside, one hand raised towards the collar of her jumper, fingers worrying the clothing, twisting it only to ease the wrinkles she herself created short of a few seconds afterward in a continuous pattern.

She had wanted to wait, had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary but as the sun began its descent, the yule log already lighted on the small chimney they had managed to magic in a month ago after fulfilling the appropriate documentation for such thing, she had known she would be forced to mutter the prayers alone as she lighted each candle with the precision she had been taught. And, while she had expected it, feared it, it still made her eyes stung as she sighed deeply, trying to wait for her parents’ car even if she knew the longer, she waited the less probable would be for them to appear.

“You are steaming.”

Narcissa’s gentle voice brought her back to the present, the older witch arms circling her waist and pressing her back against her front as she let her chin rest against Hermione’s shoulder. There was a second, a blast of perilous pride, in where the brunette wanted to move away from the embrace but, ultimately, she let herself sink into it as warm long fingers crawled up her chest only to circle her own, easing the constricting grasp she had on her collar until they fell lax against the blonde’s. Feeling the tickle of Narcissa’s hair against her cheek, the brunette angled her face slightly so she could still keep an eye on the road slightly below them, the sense of magic on their touch apparent in the rivulets of electricity she felt cursing her veins the second she burrowed herself some more against the hug.

“They are late.”

She didn’t offer any further information: not like it was necessary since, after all, they had had a similar talk for a few days now as the night her parents had promised to be there approached. Narcissa had been patient as Hermione worried herself, the first day of Hanukah passing in a blur as the brunette recited the three expected blessings over the candles, their flame jumping up to her fingers as her magic grew and surged afterward. She had received the call after she had sent the letter, afraid and nervous, and she had curled against Narcissa in a similar fashion she was now as her mother, slowly, so slowly, told her they would try to be there for the fourth night, her father’s voice at her side of the line harsh on his own doubt.

In a way, Hermione knew they were entitled to their stalling: she had been the one who had erased their very personalities in order to keep them safe, she had been the one who had taken a decision that had uprooted them all from the place she had grown up in, had returned less and less time again as everything around her magic world crumbled. Harry often spoke of how Hogwarts and the Burrow had been his home, had transformed into the places he felt he could be himself and while Hermione understood the implicit difficulties those words brought she often didn’t add to it nor mentioned the fact that, while she had loved Hogwarts and what the magic world brought to her, it had been a relief -shorter each year but warm altogether- to go back to a place in where conversations weren’t prefaced by an impending war in where they all seemed to have a stance to make. She had liked that, pretending to be a child, a girl, a teen, amongst her parents’ house and she had destroyed it with the aid of magic and the resolution of not seeing them perish under the hands of those she had failed to halt at first.

It had definitely transformed a difficult conversation into a harming one the second her parents had returned to her, memories restored and eyes sadder, darker, than she had ever imagined them having. And when the first year had passed and everything, she had was short, snippy conversations at the other end of a landline, she knew them lost to her.

And then Narcissa had come along with sapphire-like eyes and a keen sense on what meant to be family in a way she had never gotten to see by any other adult on her life. She hadn’t fallen in love with her because of that, but she had learned from her in the same way the blonde had learned to not use magic for absolute everything, of not relying on promises made by energy and hexes alone. And, most, importantly, the blonde, for a reason she was still trying to elucidate, had fallen in love with her too. Which was the reason why, when discussing Holiday traditions, on what were the ones the blonde wished to implement, Yule, fire, water cleansing being mentioned, Hermione had told her about hers and family as something not only chosen by decided.

Narcissa had been the one who had convinced her to send a letter to her mother; as nervous as she herself was and looked like whenever muggles were mentioned, the steep curve of someone who knew herself as complicit of so many wrongs during a war sometimes impossible to miss on the way she got out of breath as she spoke. And, while Hermione herself felt magic and muggle blood prickle in nervous admission, she had sent the letter and hoped.

And waited. Like she was doing now. 25 minutes after the nightfall, almost half an hour after the candles had been light, almost too close for them to die for the night, dim and grey-like the more she thought about them, about how she had been the one lighting them.

The two of them had fallen silent as seconds ticked by: latkes getting cold in the adjacent room and while Hermione wanted to keep scouting through the darkness she let her eyes fall close for a second as she took into Narcissa’s perfume, the scent a reminder of what she had, what she had gained, rather than what she had lost.

“Darling?”

The blonde’s voice echoed softly as she shook Hermione slightly, prompting her to open her eyes again; the darkness of the night being abruptly broken by a car that, slowly, moved towards their building as it tried to find a spot to park. Her parents’ car.

Nervous, Hermione glanced at the clock that presided the apartment’s entrance: not magical, merely muggle. 28 minutes since nightfall.

And, while it was late, she readied herself, extracting herself from Narcissa’s arms only to turn and kiss the older witch softly before shooting a grateful smile towards her, magic rising, twisting, dancing, on her fingertips.

“Thank you.”

She didn’t elaborate: she didn’t need to. It was going to be fine.


End file.
